the cure for pain

There is so little I need from life, but so much that I ask of it.  It’s tough to crowd out a popular opinion when it is your own and you are a bull (no, seriously).

I have realized lately that your being, your person, your personality, WHATever, is something that needs to be tended to and refurbished every once in a spring-time.  I need some fertilizer.  I need some poetry.

It’s not something that grows naturally once you get older, it’s something your stream of consciousness puts together in a coherent string of something and you decide to call it a life.  But life isn’t called anything until it’s built and re-upholstered with silk and gritty cement.  It’s something that breaks once in a while and grows accustomed to your large bottom when you can’t.

You are not an epiphany, but the downswing of orgasm.  You are that lingering tickle on your top lip that makes your stomach curl like the most delicious spoiled milk.  You are the cigarette in between white sheets and white too-early morning sunshine, even if you don’t smoke.  You are the “third cup of watery tea” but you are also the “shaking wings of our exultant and terrible youth”.  You are the seabird.  You are going to relive the life of Icarus, even if that means making Atlantis a home.

You are failure and trying.

You are something.

You are something worth it.

You did not come empty handed.



P.S. Good bye unplanned dreams! You were nice while you lasted.  I live in aftermoments now.

P.P.S.  I am referencing A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in those quotes.  Joyce FTW!


Gripe here!

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